At Risk (2 page)

“Nobody ever gets used to seeing this sort of thing.” Michael’s grip was reassuring. Despite his handicap, his commanding presence made her feel better.

“Tracy and I . . . we had an appointment,” she explained, needing to talk. “I was late. My car wouldn’t start. Amelia had to give me a ride.” She knew she was rambling, repeating herself, but she couldn’t help it. “When I got here . . .”

An ambulance wailed in the distance, the jarring sound as grating as a dentist’s drill. “I locked my office yesterday,” Liz said. “I know I did. I always do. Maybe maintenance—”

“No one’s blaming you, Elizabeth.” Michael pointed up at the darkened fluorescent fixture overhead. “That out when you arrived?”

“Yes. I tried the switch, but the light wouldn’t come on.” She pulled away, grabbed a fast-food napkin from her desk, and wiped her hands.

“What else did you touch in the room?”

“Nothing. The door was open. I came in, laid my briefcase on the chair, and . . .” Her voice seemed to fail her.

“There’s a bench in the hall. It’s better if we talk out there.”

The antique church pew was only a few yards from her office. When they reached it, Michael motioned her to sit. Liz was vaguely aware of an assistant dean and other faculty members staring at her, but security had already begun to block off the area with yellow tape. Gooseflesh rose on her arms, and she began to shiver.

Michael took her hand again. “Look at me, Elizabeth. Don’t pay any attention to them. Think. Did you see anything unusual on your way in? Hear anything?”

“Nobody. The hall was empty.” She swallowed. Did he think she would have strolled calmly past a madman waving a bloody knife without alerting anyone?

“Did you see anyone outside? Electricians? Delivery vans?”

She shook her head.

“You entered where?”

“The double doors that open onto faculty parking. I told you,” she said. “My car wouldn’t start this morning. You’d already left, so I called Amelia to drive me to school.”

“And you saw nothing out of the ordinary? No one you don’t see on a regular basis?”

“No. Wait, yes,” Liz corrected. “As we were turning into the parking lot, there was a motorcycle. A Harley. The driver was leaving in a hurry, and Amelia had to stop to avoid flying gravel. She drives that red BMW, and she didn’t want dings in the paint. He was wearing a helmet, so I couldn’t see a face, but he was in a hurry.”

“He? You know it was a man?”

She shook her head. “No, I just assumed. He was wearing leather and looked too big for a woman.” The sirens grew louder. “You don’t think he—”

“I don’t think anything.” Michael took the bloody napkin she was shredding, balled it up, and thrust it into his pocket. “At this point, we ask questions, we don’t conclude. Have you seen the Harley around campus before? Could it be a student?”

“It’s possible. But that’s the faculty lot. Students don’t have the blue stickers. You know Ernie tows the kids’ cars on the slightest excuse.”

“But you don’t remember seeing the bike here before?”

She shook her head. “I’d remember it.”

“Can you describe the motorcycle?”

“Big. Black and silver.” She shrugged. “It was loud and . . .” She broke off as two tall and booted state troopers came around the corner.

Michael squeezed her hand. “They’ll take over. Tell them what you told me.”

“I’m terrified,” she whispered, watching the troopers approach.

“You’ll be okay, Elizabeth. You’re tough.”

“Stay with me?”

His rugged features softened, and his vivid blue eyes clouded with compassion. “Absolutely,” he promised. “All the way.”

Hours later, after she’d finished the seemingly endless questioning and had a chance to shower and change into clean clothing at the school wellness center, Liz leaned back against the headrest of Michael’s van and closed her eyes.

“Headache?” he asked.

“Worse. I think my skull’s about to explode.” Gravel crunched under the wide tires as Michael slowed for the right turn off onto Clarke’s Purchase Road, the narrow blacktop that threaded around the edge of the marsh and cut through thick stands of oak and maple that had stood untouched for over a century. “I appreciate this,” she said.

“Anything for a friend.”

“This is what you did . . . when you were with the state police. Did you ever get used to it?”

“Death?” He exhaled softly. “Never did. Never wanted to.”

Liz opened her eyes, glad for the dark glasses that cut some of the afternoon glare, and stared out at the waves of reeds and grass that stretched toward the bay as far as the eye could see. To her right, a great blue heron rose gracefully above a glistening eddy of black water. Far overhead, a marsh hawk hovered almost motionless against a cloudless sky. “How could any human being do that to another?” She blinked back tears.

“They can’t. Murderers aren’t human.”

“But who would want to hurt Tracy Fleming? She was the sweetest girl. One of our full scholarship students. Shy. Everyone seemed to like her.”

“Not everybody, apparently.”

“Could it have been a random mugging? Something to do with drugs?”

Liz avoided Michael’s eyes, looking instead at his broad hands on the steering wheel. Michael was over six foot two and muscular. He was tanned from the sun, and he worked out regularly. No one who passed them on the road would guess that Michael Hubbard’s legs were useless, courtesy of a drunk driver who’d skidded off the road one rainy night and hit the off-duty detective who’d stopped to help a stranded motorist.

“I can’t believe someone murdered her in my office.”

“You said you had an appointment with Tracy. How late were you?”

“I looked at my watch on my way down the hall and it was seven-forty. We were supposed to meet at seven because Tracy works—worked in the snack bar from eight until ten, three mornings a week.” She swallowed, trying to dissolve the block of concrete in her throat. “If only my car had started this morning. If I’d been there—”

“If you’d been there, you’d probably be dead and on the way to the medical examiner’s office instead of my place. It’s not your fault, Elizabeth.”

Liz took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes as she tried to erase the image of Tracy’s hand with the missing finger . . . of blood everywhere. “Am I a suspect?”

He gave an amused grunt. “No more than me or that overaged grad student. Is Whitaker still making your life miserable?”

“I changed my phone number. And the new one’s unlisted. I meant to give it to you earlier this week. Cameron’s a jerk, but he’s hardly a killer.”

“Was Tracy Fleming married? If she was, chances are that the husband did it. Or a boyfriend. Most victims know their murderers.” Michael eased off on the gas as the van rattled across the one-lane wooden bridge.

The abandoned and crumbling 19th-century farmhouse on the left was the last structure on Clarke’s Purchase Road before they reached Michael’s home. Her house lay another mile and a half beyond his place, surrounded by swamp and woods. On the far side of her farm were a wildlife preserve, more wetlands, and several potato farms, leaving the stretch of road without another inhabited dwelling for miles.

“I don’t know if Tracy had a husband,” Liz said, answering Michael’s question. “I never saw her except in class. Once she came in with a black eye. She’d tried to cover the bruising with makeup, but I know what to look for. I counseled abused women at my last college. When I asked her about the injuries, she had a logical excuse. They usually do.”

“Did she ask for the appointment?”

“Yes, but I don’t know why. Tracy’s grades weren’t outstanding, but she wasn’t in danger of failing. She even turned in her last paper early, and I gave her a 97 percent—the best mark she’s ever gotten.” Liz put her glasses back on. “I didn’t tell anyone but Amelia that Tracy would be there this morning. And that wasn’t until I called her for a ride.”

Michael shook his head. “That doesn’t mean Tracy didn’t tell someone.” He seemed to consider his last words before stating, “You’re telling me that your office door isn’t normally unlocked?”

“No—of course it’s locked. You don’t think the murderer was looking for me, do you?”

“If he or she was, there was no reason to kill Tracy. I’m betting that someone followed her into your office. And my guess would be that it was personal, a crime of passion.”

“Not some psycho targeting young women at our college?”

“Don’t look for the worst scenario. I’m not. I did suggest that they double the security at school until we know what’s what.”

Michael worked part time as a special security consultant, and he’d been instrumental in installing the new video surveillance system for the college. “The cameras weren’t running in the new wing yet, were they?” she asked.

“A glitch in the program when they were installed. Ernie already called the company, and they promised to have it fixed immediately.”

Michael turned into his driveway, and Liz made no protest. She didn’t want to go home just yet. She was afraid that if she were alone, she’d start crying and wouldn’t be able to stop.

“How does an early supper sound? I can toss up a salad and throw a couple of steaks on the grill,” he offered.

“Thanks. I do want to come in for a while, but I couldn’t eat. I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry again.”

“You will, trust me. This is a lot for anyone to deal with. You’re a strong woman. You’ll get through it.”

Michael’s two German shepherds, Heidi and Otto, bounded down the lane to greet the van. Trained guard dogs, the animals were highly intelligent. Michael had raised them both from pups, and he was as devoted to them as any parent could be to his offspring. The dogs returned the love tenfold. Now, neither animal barked, but their obvious joy at their master’s return was evident in their every stride.

“Don’t get out yet,” Michael warned.

“I know, I know.”

He slipped a silent dog whistle off the rearview mirror, put down his window, and signaled the dogs that they were off duty. “Okay.”

Liz waited as Michael made his way to the back of the vehicle, strapped himself into his chair, and used the electric lift to lower himself onto the concrete driveway. She followed him and the dogs up the ramp to the side door of the spacious ranch house and watched as he punched in the code to deactivate the alarm system.

“With Otto and Heidi, I don’t know why you need that protection,” Liz said. She put a bag of groceries on the counter and checked the dog bowls to see if they had clean water. Heidi was sitting in front of Michael’s chair, offering him her paw to be shaken, and her mate was wriggling all over, as excited as any pup to share in the attention.

“Sixteen years on the job,” Michael replied, stroking Heidi’s sleek head with genuine affection. “I’ve seen enough to make me cautious.”

“In other words, you’re paranoid?”

“All cops are. At least the live ones,” he said. “Lots of crazies out there. Some may figure that a cripple’s a pushover. I don’t intend to be anyone’s easy mark.” He rolled over to the counter, took down a container of dog treats, and gave one to each animal. “No more biscuits,” he cautioned. “You’ll get fat.”

“Stop calling yourself a cripple.” It was an argument they’d had often, and one she’d never won. “So your legs don’t work. That doesn’t make you less of a man.”

“I hear you. Make yourself at home,” he replied, changing the subject. “Time for an oil change.” He flashed her a boyish grin. “I’d appreciate it if you’d check the suet feeders. Those woodpeckers go through them as though they grew on trees. I think both pairs of Downies are feeding chicks.”

Heidi trotted after him as he rolled the chair toward his bedroom wing and the bathroom. Otto stretched out on the kitchen tile and gazed at Liz through half-closed eyes as she put milk, butter, and a dozen eggs in the fridge.

As always, Michael’s house was neat and orderly, despite his varied interests. Two cameras with telescopic lenses and a stack of bird books lay on the dining-room table beside an opened sketchbook and a set of professional artist’s charcoal pencils. A telescope and binoculars rested on the bench in the breakfast area beside the floor-to-ceiling bay window that offered a spectacular view of the marsh. Candid photographs of Michael’s deceased wife, Barbara, were scattered in the various rooms, and Liz knew that a large studio portrait of Barbara held the place of honor over the family-room fireplace.

This was clearly a man’s house, but not austere. Liz had felt at home here the first day she was invited in, two years ago, soon after she’d returned to Kent County. She still felt comfortable here. There was something very appealing about Michael Hubbard. She suspected she cared a lot more for him than she wanted to admit. “Want a beer?” she called.

“No, thanks. You have one, if you want,” he shouted back.

“Iced tea will do.” She wanted a double Scotch, but drinking alone wasn’t a luxury she allowed herself. Neither was drinking alcohol on a workday. Not even today.

She put ice in two glasses and filled them with tea from a pitcher in the refrigerator. Then she hurried outside to check the bird feeders, glad to have something ordinary to do on a day that was far from normal. But as she slipped a fresh cake of nut and berry suet into a wire basket, she wondered if any day would ever be routine again.

Ten minutes later, Michael joined her in the kitchen. His shirt and tie were gone, replaced with an Eddie Bauer T-shirt over the tan cords he’d worn to work. “I bought a new game,” he said, waving toward the computer workstation set up in one corner of the dining room. “Swords, dragons, and monsters. You’ll love it.”

“Maybe.” Liz perched on a stool and gazed down at her hands. “I’m not a flake, but I keep expecting to see blood.”

“You’re right, you’re not a flake.”

Michael pulled salad greens, tomatoes, cucumber, and green pepper from the refrigerator, piled them on the counter, and looked directly into her eyes. “You know you’re welcome to spend the night here, Elizabeth. I’ve got two extra bedrooms. I can’t vouch for how comfortable the beds are, but I’ve never had any complaints.”

“I’ll be fine, but I may need you to give me a lift in the morning. That is, if you’re planning to go in tomorrow.”